Westmoreland
by JessamyGriffith
Summary: Medieval AU. Sir John is struck down by a curse, and must seek the strange grey-eyed Witch of the Westmoreland to have his wound healed, or lose his soul. Based the song of the same name, as well as other folk songs and stories. Magic Realism
1. Pale was the wounded knight

**A medieval AU of John and Sherlock from the BBC. Approximately 14th century.  
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WIP. I will update sporadically until I get the other big WIP I am doing done - this is my mental break from the other, in fact.

Based on folk stories and songs - Twa Corbies, Witch of the Westmoreland, among others.

**Warnings - **There will be points in the story where medieval Christian viewpoints crop up (i.e. burn witches, homosexuals go to hell, etc.)

There will be a scene of a sexual nature between two young men. In the 14th century, males of 17 years of age were often betrothed or already married. I will not debate whether this makes it 'underage' - by modern standards, yes. By 14th century standards, a 17 year old was more than capable of being responsible for his actions and choices.

**_If you disagree, then please do not read further or flame me with comments. Just go and do your own cursed research._  
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**I do not advocate these views, they are representative of their time period.**

**The fic is Mature and beyond.  
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**There is also blood, gore, battle, some Paganism, and historically correct (read: cruel) treatment of animals. **Yes, animals will die. Again, I do not advocate these.

This is a work of fiction based upon another work of fiction.

For notes on language, see the end of the fic.

* * *

><p><strong>...<strong>

**..**

**.  
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**Pale was the wounded knight **

**That bore the rowan shield**

**Loud and cruel were the raven's cries**

**That feasted on the field**

Sir John reined in his horse hastily, aghast. All these people, lying on the cold earth, the blood still steaming gently. He crossed himself hastily, mailed gauntlet clinking. Unshriven they had died. Below, his brindled lymer whined piteously. His goshawk, perched on the forward bow of his saddle stirred under her hood, belled jesses ringing. John's eyes travelled over the scene, noting the bodies and their positions. Tendrils of early morning mist clung to the ground.

Here lay a youth, throat red and open to the sky, eyes wide and blank. There, an old man lay crumpled. There, a woman, struck down as she ran. As he looked, the first of the flies landed on the boy's face, crawling over his face to taste the blood drying there. John's gorge rose. He felt soul-sick. His steed's hooves pranced nervously, drumming on the hard ground. He murmured a reassurance, patting the blood-bay neck.

A movement amongst the trees caught his eye, and his hand dropped to his sword hilt. A man stepped out - his lord's chief man-at-arms, wiping his sword blade clean on a scrap of linen.

"Sir John," the tow-headed man called. "Well met. I trow thy journey was naught long. Dost thou go now unto our liege?"

John's eyes tightened. He did not like the Erinman - the lust for violence was like unto a frenzy with him at times. So. His dread lord had commanded this heedless slaughter. And in Cumbria! 'Twould be war. John had known that his lord lusted for power and land, but this - was this envy of other's holdings? Avarice for conquest and land? Pridefulness in his power? An entire hamlet - all souls cast adrift. _Evil_, the small voice within said, and John knew it for bare fact.

"Well enow," replied John laconically. He dismounted with a clink of armour and threw the reins over the high cantle of his saddle, motioning his hound to remain still. "Victory was mine. All honour to our lord. Tell me true - what wert the purpose of this?"

Sebastian sneered slightly. "Our champion. Be thou careful, Sir John. Dangers abound in these woods."

"Art there bandits, in troth? I see but thou. One man against untold numbers of villeins?" enquired John. "Best I come prepared, then." He pulled down his battered rowan shield, painted with his crest - a sable tree, leafless, uypon argent.

"Nay, good Sir," the arms-man demurred. "My men haf gone on. We lost but one - luck were with us."

"Luck?" said John angrily. "Against such as these?" His arm swept the scene - people who were clearly not warriors. His sudden movement caused his war-horse to shy back.

"We haf done our duty, as our lord commanded," said the man, unperturbed. He sheathed his sword with a clink.

"Thy duty. Aye. Thou hast sent all these souls unto their Maker. For such honour, wear I our liege's chain of fealty and carry his shield." If John's voice betrayed his soul-deep bitterness, the Erinman did not show he had heard. He only smiled the peculiar smile which did not touch his pale eyes.

"Flyest naught these souls unto the Lord in Heaven, Sir John."

John wrinkled his brow, and pushed his straggling dark blond hair back under his coif. "What mean'st thou?"

The arms-man's eyes were fanatical. "Their souls wert given unto our liege-lord. He doth enjoy them."

John's eye widened, and he backed away. "No... thou canst naught mean..."

"Our lord doth serve a dark master. Surely thou did a-perceive it long since, Sir knight." The Irishman held up his misericorde, the stiletto thin-blade gleaming with a strange darkness that oozed and writhed sickeningly.

John felt faint. "Witchcraft..." he breathed in horror. Behind, he heard his horse whicker in alarm and wheel about to flee. Leaper, his steadfast hound - who had once faced a bear down - growled and cringed away from the evil radiating from the blade.

"'Twere not witchcraft, but magic," corrected Sebastian. "This beauty did dispatch many this day. The souls be collected here, to be used in rites. Ne thoughten ye upon how our lord did become great? Not merely through coin and influence."

He eyed John. "Thou hast stood always in my path, Sir John. Thou must go, and should ye die... 'Twill be no great work to tell our liege thou hast perished by the hands of bandits. 'Twill please me greatly to have ye removed, and your soul in agony."

John's hand fell to the hilt of his sword. "Darest thou!" he ground out.

The man's eyes flickered, then went up past his shoulder. He gasped, and fell to his knee. "My liege!" he cried.

John spun around to see not his lord, but another man-at-arms. His left arm relaxed in surprise and his rowan shield drooped.

The crossbow bolt caught him in the left shoulder, punching through mail in the space between his pauldron and breastplate. He fell, agony beyond comprehension racking his body. With a grin, the Erinman knelt, planting a knee on John's chest. He grasped the butt end of the quarrel from where it protruded from John's surcote and twisted it viciously. John cried aloud, and screamed again, voice cracking as the bolt was torn free, leaving whatever foul magic it carried behind - a dark seed planted within his shoulder. As the darkness consumed his hearing and vision, he heard Sebastian speak.

"I wouldst finish this now, but I would haf ye know the agony of having thy soul consumed whilst thou yet live. Go thou to hell, Sir John."

And John saw no more.


	2. Loud and cruel were the raven's cries

**Saying beck water cold and clear**

**Will never heal your wound**

**There's none but the Witch of the Westmoreland**

**Can make thee hale and sound**

There was a tugging on his hair. John couldn't quite comprehend it. Did demons of hell tug on hair? For in Hell he must be - it was the only place for a sinner like himself. The tug came again, but John lay still. He was cold, so cold. Was Hell cold?

There was a croak, as a voice just above his ear called,

'T'other! T'other! Come hither! "Tis a new-slain knight!"

There was a flutter, and a thump near his head.

"Aye, Tane. A knight, sure enow. Be he alone? No squire?"

There was a flop, and T'other complained, "Were no need to strike me."

"Fool. Use thine een. Ne hawk, ne hound, ne squire nearby." A pause. "Nor a lady fair a'tall. Unlucky man."

"Ah, but look thou here! Such bonny gowden hair. We'll theek our nest with it." Another tug at his hair, harder.

"Gowden? Be ye blind! 'Tis liken unto horse-piss colour! Ne thatch not our nest with such!"

_Nest?_ thought John muzzily. _Since when did peasant scavengers have nests? _With great effort, he forced his gummy eye lids apart, the brightness eye-wateringly blinding.

"Ah, look at his bonny blue een! Pick them out, Tane!"

"Eh, they look fine. I will."

A weight fell upon his wounded shoulder, and he moaned feebly. There was a sudden silence.

"Tane, leave be. This one be not dead yet. Standen ye back, feather brain."

John's lids fluttered, blinking away the tears. Standing on his chest, head cocked, a raven regarded him with curiousity and alarm. _Hellas, this was the afterlife. Talking birds?_

"Thou art right, T'other. Needs we mote wait a spell."

"Say you true, Tane. That wound will be his end."

John's shoulder gave a great throb of pain at the words. His back arched in agony and John cried out hoarsely. "Mother Mary, save me!"

"She cannaught help. Ne praying either." Tane cocked a bright eye at the blood stain. "The wound is spelled. There be a curse upon ye, and it will consume ye, as a blight upon an apple spreads. More, some metal rings were driven into your flesh."

T'other bobbed up and down. "Ha! Ha! The metal will putrefy thy wound, but first, the magic will be your soul's death!"

At this this, John began to struggle, rocking onto his right side, scattering the two ravens into startled hops. "No! Be it not true!" Dizzy, he lay still again, panting in pain. He could feel the dark spot within him, pulsing and evil. Was it already spreading? His lips began to move, numbly reciting the virtues of knighthood - _valour... prowess... courtesy... humility... honour... faith_. Faith. A sob choked him.

"N'will we lie to ye. 'Tis a powerful magic laid upon ye. We can see. Know ye not that ravens are messengers of the gods? We haf the Sight. And speech of Man."

"Ne can I die like this!" John lay with the side of his face pressed to the cold earth. Hot drops fell from his eyes to spatter on the ground.

"Will you or nill you, man. 'Twere all the same to us," cawed Tane.

"Aye. Beck water cold and clear will never clean your wound." volunteered T'other callously.

"There be but one - Ow!" cried Tane. "Why dost thou peck me?"

"Ne speaken naught, you fool," spoke the other in a mutter. John's heart leapt.

"What say you? Be there someone who may heal my wound?" he whispered.

"Nay, nay," cawed T'other, hopping from side to side. "It were no use. Lie you down, man. Die. We need thy hair."

Tane looked betrayed, ruffling his glossy black feathers at T'other. "N'will we naught -! I forbade ye to think on't! The colour -!"

John loosened his grasp on his shield, freeing his left arm. He gritted his teeth, and used his good right arm to push himself to sitting position. The world swam in streaks of colour, then settled. He looked at the two ravens. "Tell me true. Praying will not help me, ye say. Who on earth hast the skill to treat my wound?"

"Lively corpse, is't naught?" said T'other. "He doth interest me."

Tane looked uncertain, head turning to look at John with one eye, then the other.

"His hearts burns true," he muttered. "Perhaps..." He ruffled his feathers up, then smoothed them, decision made. "Lift thine right arm. And hold ye still, no matter what passes."

Confused, John complied, and the raven hopped up with a flap of heavy wings. Again he cocked his head at the wound, then his head darted forward and back quickly. John gasped. The raven twisted its head and flung something metallic on the ground. A broken ring of chainmail. Another deep stab, and a second joined the first. John groaned, sweat standing on his brow, arm trembling. The wound ran afresh with blood. The bird hopped to his leg.

"Ye haf a better chance of getting there, without those poisoning your wound. Ye mote go now to Westmoreland."

John looked at the raven upon his knee. "Westmoreland? But 'tis a goodly journey - who is't can help me?"

T'other flapped. "There's none but the Witch of the Westmoreland can make thee hale and sound."

John bowed his head in thankfulness. His hand wavered up to make the sign of the cross, then dropped. No prayer could help him. He was beyond redemption. He had always been. He nodded instead to his two strange interlocutors.

"I thank ye."

"N'thanken us naught," muttered Tane, embarrassed. "It may be that the Witch will naught help."

"And ye mote travel the way alone, ye ken," cawed T'other. "Tis your geas, and part of the price for help."

John nodded again. "Will thou show me the way?"

Tane cawed a harsh laugh. "Be thou deaf? Alone!"

"But ye be..." John's voice trailed off.

"Beasts?" enquired T'other coldly. "Not we. Messengers, us. We speak for the gods. They see something in you, John, son of Watt. N'will they want ye to die beforetimes."

"Still, ye haf friends true and good. Call them," suggested T'other in a kinder caw.

John looked confused for a moment, then his brow cleared. He put two fingers to his mouth, and whistled sharply. Hoof beats heralded the coming of his destrier, with his hound Leaper bounding ahead to fawn at John's legs. The dog sniffed his shoulder, growled low, then whined, looking at John.

John rubbed his lymer's floppy ears affectionately with his good arm.

"Fret ye naught. 'Twill be better. We mote travel a piece first." He looked again at his bird-friends.

"I thank ye. Again, I thank ye."

"Three thanks pays for all," remarked Tane sagely. "Get ye gone, man. Make haste."

John pulled his shield back to him and slung its strap over his head. He stretched a hand out to his horse, which stepped closer, lowering its great red-maned head.

"Galen. True friend mine," John whispered. "Help me."

He grasped the cheek strap, and as if it understood, his stallion lifted its head, pulling John to his feet. He leaned against Galen, shaking. Leaper whined in sympathy.

John grasped the cantle of his saddle, put his toe in the stirrup and heaved himself upwards. He made it, but leaned forward, vision greyed, wound throbbing. Dangereuse, his goshawk, gave a sharp cry as if to rouse him, and he straightened painfully.

Gathering the reins up, he turned his stallions head to the east.

"Fare you well, corbies. If luck be with me, I may thank you three times three."


	3. None but the Witch of the Westmoreland

**So course well, my brindled hound,  
>And fetch me the mountain hare<br>Who's coat is as green as the West water  
>Or as white as the lily fair.<strong>

_'There's none but the witch of the Westmoreland can make thee hale and sound.'_

The words echoed in John's mind as he wended his way through the mostly trackless wilderness of Cumbria. So near to the mountains, there were few people. His trek was solitary and the stillness of the watching forest oppressed his spirits. There was only the clop of Galen's hooves and the faint chiming of Dangereuse's jesses to break the silence. Leaper forged ahead, tail waving and ears a-flap, nose down to better snuff out small rodents which he consumed with quick snaps.

The first time John fainted, he could feel the veils of greyness pressing close in upon him but was unable to thrust them away. He awoke with his head nearly resting upon Galen's sweaty red neck, a pain in his sternum from where his torso pressed against the high bow of the saddle. Dangereuse was clinging to the edge of the plate on his right shoulder, shrieking and buffeting his head with her wings. Her hood had fallen away and her wild reddish eyes blazed. His steed stood still with all four legs braced, and Leaper was standing on his hind legs, fore paws pressed to his leg. John groaned, and stiffly pushed himself upright.

"Hush... hush, my friends. I be well. Needs we mote press on a ways further afore we stop."

Leaper whined as if in disagreement, jumping up to nose at his left hand. John gritted his teeth against the jolt of pain. "God's teeth. Touch it naught, Leaper!"

The wound continued to throb in time with his heart. John carefully lifted his surcote and mail at the neck, craning to look at the wound. Praise be, it had stopped bleeding. The padded gambeson beneath had acted as a wadding for the wound, and was now hard and crusted with gore. John pressed his lips together. He prayed that the two ravens were right and it would not putrefy, now the metal pieces were out.

The magic planted in the wound, however... It seemed to John that already it had spread, staining him. It felt as if tendrils were growing. One was reaching down his arm, another towards his heart. He dreaded what it portended. Should he live, would he be consumed by evil as the arms-man Sebastian was? As his dread lord was? Not for the first time in his life, John considered the gravest sin, which would ensure his damnation - ending his life by his own hand. _No. _He closed his eyes, his head hanging, sick unto his soul. He would find this Witch. He would get help. He would not pass to Hell through the machinations of the Erinman.

He kicked his legs free of the stirrups, lest he faint again and fall. He did not wish to have a leg broken by being caught in the straps. Stroking the back of his right forefinger down Dangereuse's smooth chest, he smiled as she calmed. "I thank thee, sweetling, for my waking." Dangereuse preened briefly, then closed her eyes, settling back in her accustomed place.

John gently thumped Galen's sides with his feet. "Let us go onwards, my friends."

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><p><strong>Who said, "Green moss and heather bands<br>**  
><strong>Will never staunch the flood.<br>There's none but the Witch of the Westmoreland  
>Can save thy dear life's blood.<strong>

The second time John lost consciousness, he found himself on the ground. His left hand was twitching convulsively, and he was half-throttled by the strap of his shield which he had fallen upon. Leaper was alternating between licking his face and growling. John sputtered, eyelids fluttering. Cold. He was so cold, except the ball of heat in his shoulder. A trickle against his skin told him that the wound had begun to bleed afresh. John's teeth chattered. He would not make it even to the Ullswater if the wound continued to spring forth with its crimson flood.

Leaper nudged his cheek again with his cold nose, and John opened eyes which he had not realized he had closed.

"Ye be naught well a'tall, John, son of Watt, be ye?" said a piping voice. John struggled, catching at Galen's stirrup leather before hauling himself to a sitting position. He looked about, head spinning. _No one._

"Who spake?" he shouted.

"None but I. Tedd'ra, humble hare." The voice seemed to treble, as if three voices spoke. John looked at the source of the sound. Sparks danced and his vision wavered - for but a moment he thought he saw three hares, sitting in a circle, and... sharing one ear each? He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and shook his blond hair from his eyes. The vision coalesced into a single hare, winter white, sitting solemnly and staring with wise eyes. John choked back a laugh. _More speaking animals._He would think he was going mad, but that he had seen much strangeness this past day.

"Nay, ye be right. Not well at all."

The rabbit sat up, forepaws tucked up, and cocked its head. "Ye bleed."

John snorted. "I ken. Haf I but some herbs, would I bind it. I haf none."

"Thy loyal hound spake well of ye, when we did meet anon. After a wee misunderstanding," piped the hare, glaring with its wide eyes at Leaper, who sat grinning. "He doth fret for ye, John, son of Watt, and begged my help."

John licked his dry lips, suppressing a smile at the solemn little beast. "Ye can help me? I thank ye true."

"Aye, aye," said the hare testily. "Though I be but small. I'faith, haf ye naught heard the tale of the lion and the mouse?" At John's blank look, Tedd'ra sighed, turning its head to lick down a stray piece of fur on its back. "Ah, well. Men needs must study animals more. T'would aid them greatly to understand themselves. Meantime..."

The hare picked up a green mass with its teeth, twitching its nose in disgust and hopped closer, dropping it cautiously at John's side. "Take thou this - 'tis bog moss. Use it to pack thy wound. "Twill not staunch it completely, but needs must."

John blinked. "This will help? Thank ye, and again, Tedd'ra, my thanks. The wound is sore."

John picked up the bundle with a clumsy hand, forcing his twitching left hand to close upon it. He could not lift his arm above his waist. Groaning, he used his right hand to roll and twist the mass into a compact shape. Reaching beneath mail and gambeson, he thrust it deep into the hot, wet wound. Open-mouthed at the swell of black pain, he swayed. When his vision cleared he saw the hare staring at him, ears erect and alarmed. The white beast seemed to be limned in green, warm and full of life. _Be I truly mad?_ thought John muzzily. _What devilment is this?_

"John, son of Watt. Be ye brave. The curse be strong upon ye, and grows stronger. I see it in your eyes."

"My eyes?"

"Ye haf blue een, aye? They seemed but to darken when thou touchest thy injury. It bodes ill. Needs ye mote keep heart of faith."

John's heart sank. The evil was growing, he did not imagine it.

"Thrice haf ye thanked me, and thrice I will help. A moment." With several strong bounds, the hare was at a plant that bloomed in white. Heather. With a snip of its long teeth, Tedd'ra took a sprig and carried to John. "The white heather, symbolizing good fortune and great fixedness of purpose, will buoy thy heart. Makest thou an infusion and -"

The hare shrieked, a high thin sound as John's left arm reached out and seized it. John's vision darkened as he grasped the struggling, kicking beast, seeing only the green life twisting in his hand. _Snuff it out,_ whispered a voice. _It lies. There is nae hope for the likes of ye, John Wattson. _His fingers tightened on the hare's throat.

Sparks burst in his vision, and John found himself on his back again, Leaper standing on his chest and growling into his face. He focussed, bewildered, and the lymer turned its head to grasp the heather sprig, dropping it onto John's face. He gasped, smelling the blooms. The scent chased away the last of the darkness clouding his mind, and his eyes welled up, tears leaking to wash down his temples through grit and sweat. He rolled his head to see the white hare lying still, tongue protruding. Dangereuse had flown down and was now mantling the hare, staring at John - protecting it, John realized. _From him._

"Oh, God!" he cried. "Nay! Prithhee, ne cannaught ye die! I beseech thee!"

The hare stirred, and painfully gathered itself up. Dangereuse made an odd chirrup sound, and flapped back to the saddle. Tedd'ra coughed, and glared. "Th'art fortunate, John, son of Watt, that I were no simple hare. Three lives haf I, else I would be dead, sure."

John turned his face away, throwing his right arm across his eyes. His chest heaved. "Damned, damned I am. Twice damned, and thrice when I end my miserable life. Oh, God! Forgive me_, forgive me!"_

"Speak ye not in that fashion!" snapped the hare in a painful croak. "Ye have wit, ye have friends, ye have tools, and ye haf the help of the gods of the land. Do not profane them with such speech!"

John choked himself to silence. He inhaled the clean scent of the heather. "The gods...?"

Tedd'ra made a disgusted _t'cha!_ noise. "Yes, gods! Hellas, men be such fools these days. Thy God is all gods, all gods art thine. _Lackwit."_

John was silent. To consider gods... no. He had made his knightly vows to one God, and he knew he profaned them even as he spoke them, by virtue of being what he was. _Sinner. Beyond redemption._

"Thrice I wouldst help thee, John, son of Watt. Listen ye." The hare was stern, and John lowered his arm and turned reddened eyes to the beast.

"Yon moss will help ye but a short time. 'Tis a gruesome wound, and tainted with magic, and the flood will nae be staunched. Likewise the heather will ne helpen ye long. Ye seek the Witch of the Westmoreland, the goshawk sayeth."

John nodded, eyes fixed on his helper.

"Rest ye apace, until moon rise. Then rise ye also, and mount thy good steed. Turn his head so the wind do blow his mane behind him, and ride. When the moon has crossed the sky, and the bright evening star falls behind, ye will meet with the third."

"Third?"

Tedd'ra snapped its long teeth alarmingly and scuffled its paws in the dirt. "I'troth, understand ye naught? Three times, you will receive help. Babe in the woods art thou! I be off, John, son of Watt. Remember what I haf said. Ye haf a bright soul, but it is in peril. Take heart." With that, the hare leaped away, disappearing into the bracken. John looked at Leaper.

"Ye done well, my loyal friend. I knowen naught why ye stay by me, but that I love you. I am a poor master."

Leaper wagged his tail tentatively at him, and John reached out with his right arm. He did not trust his left. "Come ye, hound. We mote break our fast and sleep ere we continue our quest. Help me?"

Leaper allowed John to grasp the thick studded collar around his neck, and pulled his master up. John groaned. He had but hard cheese and stale bread for supper, washed down with water. In truth he had no appetite, but he knew that he needed sustenance. He pulled himself up using the stirrups again, leaned on Galen to steady himself, then reached for his blanket-pack tied on behind the cantle.

Dangereuse made a sharp noise, and he comforted her. "Lass, wait a moment. Then we will hunt." He paused, fingers on the knots secured his pack. "But... best ye ne taken naught any coneys or hares this eve. White ones, forsooth." Dangereuse fluffed her feathers as if in agreement, and he smiled, heart lightened.

"Whilst there be life, there be hope," he murmured. Three times he would have aid. God... no, _gods_-given help. He would find the Witch of the Westmoreland, surely.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

Anyone who knows folklore, or alternatively, Terry Pratchett's Wee Free Men should have a clue as to the name of the hare, which uses the Cumbrian dialect of sheepherders, the 'Yan, Tan, Teddra' system for counting sheep. The hare is also represented in the Pagan fashion as a triskelion, as in the Tinner's Hares, representing the lunar cycle and fertility. The symbol originated in China, and represented peace and tranquillity, which John rather needs. ( .org/wiki/Three_hares )  
>Incidentally, the name Dangereuse, John's bird, was pulled from Richard the Lionheart's great grandmother's name from his mother Eleanour d'Aquitaine's grandmother. A wonderful name isn't it? 'Dangereuse de L' Isle Bouchard'.<p>

The extra chorus for the song 'Witch of Westmoreland', (about the hare) is pulled from Archie Fisher's original version of the song. Not that I am faulting Stan Roger's version, but it was shortened slightly.

Herbology - one of the areas I am actually doing real research for this fic. Bog moss has been used for centuries as a dressing for wounds. It is absorptive and extremely acidic, inhibiting the growth of bacteria and fungi. White heather is considered lucky, and is still used a flavouring for beer, and heather honey is much prized.

Gambeson - a padded or quilted jacket worn as defensive layer alone, or as John does as padding under mail and plate armour. Usually constructed from linen, padded with cotton or other fibres, and by the 14th century laced or buttoned up. It is feasible that John just not worry too hard about binding the wound, as wearing what is essentially a huge wad of cloth is just about as good. Though of course he'd have a linen shirt on underneath as underwear.


	4. Dream of Love

John removed his mail coif and gauntlets before laying down with his cloak and his pack for a pillow. He'd rubbed down Galen as much as he was able to in his condition, but had to leave the sturdy destrier tacked up, only loosening straps for comfort. Leaper lay down next to him, nose tucked under a leg as John shifted on the ground, looking for a comfortable position. John felt queasy, and his shoulder continued to throb dully. The feeling that he was still a-horseback followed John down into sleep. He was riding, body moving, down, down, down a dark path.

He slept. He rarely slept deeply or long enough to dream, but tonight he dreamed, fragments of memory rising to torment as they had not done in years.

_John dreamed - he dreamt he was on horse back,_ riding next to his father on a cold April morning, leaving their keep, Fyrrelande Castle, on the borderlands of Lancashire. He was sixteen years old, acting as squire to his father and dreaming of winning his spurs. He twisted in his saddle to wave again to his sister Heryeth, who swiped at her tear-stained face with one hand chapped with cold in the early morning's chill. She sniffled, then waved like a child - frantically, with her whole arm. "Fare thee well, John, Father! Comen you back quickly! God go with you!"

Next to her his lady mother Alienore stood, a small tense figure in blue with ashy blond hair coiled in a crespin net. Her eyes had been loving yet full of fear for him when he'd embraced her in farewell. Over his head she'd slipped a chain with a cross, then kissed him on the forehead. John turned again in the saddle. He waved at his mother and sister once more, and she lifted an arm in silent farewell. He turned back to face forward at a word from his sire, and clucked once to his horse. They were on their way to Dover and thence to Calais to serve Sir Knight Nicholas de Harrington and through him the king's second son, John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster. 'Twas a great chance - John might even become a knight retainer to the Duke himself. John's heart lifted at the thought. To become a knight and serve God and his lord was all his aspiration. For honour and glory, he dreamed.

_He dreamed. _He dreamt that he was running, adrenalin pushing, armour weighing him down. His sword lifted high and bit into mail and flesh, and the man fell. But John was exhausted, the battle had been raging for an uncountable length of time and another French enemy was swinging down at the join between John's neck and shoulder. John just managed to block it, but his arm was at a bad angle and something in his shoulder gave. He was thrown onto his knees by the brute force of the blow, his left arm dropping to dangle awkwardly, dislocated, sword falling from numbed fingers. He could do nothing but stare upward, breathing hard through the holes in his helm and await the final blow. It didn't come. A tall shape interposed itself between him and his adversary, driving him back with a flurry of slashes. "Allan," John croaked, and Allan spared him a glance, dark eyes flashing through the slits in his bascinet. Ignoring the spots dancing in his vision, John clumsily picked up his sword in his untrained right hand and placed himself back to back with his squire brother, who laughed in the joy of battle as he pressed the attack against yet another foe.

_John__ dreamed. _He dreamt of Allan. His saviour. He dreamt of Allan's long shadow stretching across the gold-lit dust of the training yard. John dreamt of days of sweat and strained muscles and laughter. Allan was helping John to grow accustomed to wielding his broadsword in his right hand while his left shoulder healed. John was desperate to return to service, and endured the bruises on his body from the wooden practice sword used during his enforced clumsiness. Slowly, his skill with his right arm grew.

Allan was just a year older at eighteen, squired to Sir Nicholas, and was forever merry and laughing, all white teeth in a golden tanned face and chestnut curls. Allan had joked that he was the one who should have been fighting left-handed - his coat of arms had the barre sinister of bastardy slashing from upper right to lower left. John laughed at the jest - sinistra meant left-handed. John had always used his left hand more naturally, though it had meant a fight between his father and the parish priest who had insisted John's use of it meant he was Devil-possessed. However, his father had wisely seen the advantages of being a left-handed fighter against right-handed opponents who did not expect it. Now it meant that when John healed, he and Allan could fight side by side, each guarding the other's weak side. When John had suggested this, blushing a little, Allan had smiled half ruefully, half in pain, and replied, "Haf I a weak side, John, it would be but you. So I fain would guard thee well." And John's heart had twisted.

_John dreamed_ - He dreamt of their first kiss, stolen in a stable. Allan had happened upon him in the early morn as John had been carrying water to his steed. John had straightened up, stretching, muscles straining a linen shirt grown soft and fine from washing, and stilled when he saw Allan. Allan's brown eyes had been dark with longing, and he brushed a wisp of straw from John's hair. And neither had moved first, or was it both? Leaning in, the press of soft lips, tentative, then clinging. John's hands tangling in Allan's curls to pull him closer, Allan's whimper of relief, hands locking behind John's back. And the feeling John had - that this was right and natural, two of the Lord's creatures sharing love. _Sin, mortal sin,_ hissed a voice in the back of his mind, but John ignored it, his eyes closing to focus only on the physical. Allan. Sweet Allan. Allan's tongue touching his lips, soft, their breath mingling, and the convulsive grasp Allan's hands made when John daringly darted his own tongue out to meet Allan's. How could this be wrong, when his heart beat so hard it felt as though he'd not lived before this? When his soul was singing? When Allan was within his arms? Handsome Allan with a beam of sunlight athwart his head, hair turned ruddy, and golden dust motes and the smell of sweet hay around them?

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><p><em>John's face twisted in distress as he slept, and Leaper whined softly. John dreamed. <em>

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><p>The confessor who travelled with the Duke of Lancaster's retinue delivered a thundering sermon upon the sins of sodomy, declaring it to be unnatural, that the sinners were traitors unto God their Father, who had ordained that men were to lie with women. "A man who doth take up devilish ways and plays the womanly role in coupling with another man is most vile in the sight of the Lord! If such a man do exist, he is beyond redemption. Know ye, that a barren desert of sand in Hell with flakes of flame that sear you perpetually await the proponents of Sodom."<p>

John knelt with the other worshippers in the cold chapel of Ombriere Palace, head bowed over his clasped hands in seeming prayer, resentment aflame in his heart. How could this fat priest who was supposed to be a man of God say such vileness? The hypocrite - did he not have a mistress he'd begotten a child upon? Did he not accept coin for indulgences? John could name at least three of the seven sins that would apply to the priest (_lust, gluttony, greed_), and his knuckles whitened.

His father's hand, beneficent and loving, fell upon John's shoulder, and he started, then was shamed. He must pray that he would be worthy and become a knight. He remembered the virtues of a knight and began to recite them in his head, lips moving. He would not shame his father. Behind him he heard Allan's in-drawn breath, and John remembered yesterday eve - the fumbling and grappling as both had tried to get as close as skin would allow in the copse behind the palace. The groan Allan had made as he'd spilt, hot and wet, over John's hand. John's eyes closed, and his forehead dropped onto his clasped hands. John prayed. His true sin, the one he prayed for was his secret fear - not that he would die in battle, or be wounded and useless. It was that he might die before he could be with Allan again, kiss him, That he might not again see Allan's flashing smile soften as he gazed at John. Die without seeing his face incandescent with ecstasy as he groaned John's name. For this guilty sin, he prayed.

There upon the cold stones of the chapel John prayed and burned.

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><p>Notes:<p>

Author's note - herein begins the back story. It will be a large chunk before we get back to John's journey. Also will contain the aforementioned sex between 17 and 18 year young men. In a stable. You are welcome. Also, battle, death, some glory, animals get hurt, epic angst - because after all John is wounded beyond what has happened to his shoulder, poor lad.

Fyrrelande Castle was a real place, as is the Black Prince, and his younger brother John of Ghent (or Gaunt as they said in England). To be a page, a squire, a retainer to such a household as the Duke's is a great thing.

Bascinet - a pointy topped helm. Had visors that could be attached, most notable and practical being a pig-faced one. It's pointy and interesting.

And left-handed people know that according to old tradition it is bad luck to do things left handed. You sinister people... My mother had left-handedness walloped out of her by Catholic nuns at school. Identifying a bastard through heraldry was common, using the barre sinister. See? Left=bad... after all, didn't the Bible say something about the righteous and right hand and... Not my view. I am just saying what has been written and making a poor joke of history.

Ombriere Castle - nothing remains of this bastion of English rule in France except a gateway, and that dates from the 16th century. A pity.

The priest's speech on sodomy is fairly typical of attitudes of the Church at the time, though the text was adapted from a speech about the loves of women for women, oddly. Another unnatural thing apparently. As was fornication in the wrong positions, on feast days of saints, Sundays, after a woman has had a child and before she made confession of that sin and was properly churched... People whine about views these days? Try living in the past. For real.


	5. Dream of Sin

_John_ _'s head turned from side to side. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. He dreamed. _

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><p>They were in Aquitaine, defending England's sovereign rights, following his Grace of Lancaster. They fought skirmish after skirmish with the French, and while England's foothold in France was maintained, neither did they expand their holdings. The Black Prince, gravely ill, had resigned his command and returned to England. The fighting was taking its toll upon the army, and growing apathy was blighting its will to fight. Worse yet were the rumours that the black death had returned, had been seen in the south of France. <em>Miasma malignus, pestis, plague, <em>came the chittering voices, and the fearful began to purchase amulets and herbs.

And yet John was happy. He was young and he was fit to fight again. Sir Nicholas de Harrington had promised that he would be given his spurs and a place in his household. John's father had been pleased, embracing him. "John, I be so proud of thee," he'd said. "Tis as much as I'd hoped for. I knew you could impress them favourably. Your lady mother will be so happy." John's heart had glowed at the pleasure in his father's voice and he smiled, eyes crinkling. He quickly made the sign of the cross and cast his blue eyes upward in prayerful thanks. His hand rested a moment on his chest, covering the small cross his mother hand given him.

Allan had smiled as well, openly and without rancour when John had told him of his good fortune. They were brushing down their horses in the stables. Allan was awaiting his spurs as well, and did not begrudge John his chance. It was more difficult for Allan as a bastard son. But as John said - if John took a place with Sir Nicholas, it meant they could be together - though it would be tedious to look after his little squire brother when John was a grand knight. Allan had mock-cuffed him, John had bumped his shoulder, and then they had taken their horseplay outside, tripping and shoving until they had ended up tussling on the ground, dust coating their hosen and a trio of stable urchins cheering them on. Allan had wriggled like an eel, but John pinned him, twisting an arm up until Allan had howled, choking on laughter and dust. "Pax! Damn ye, John, you wee brute. Peace be on you, now let me up!" And with a blinding grin, John pulled his tall friend up, catching his shoulders when Allan staggered. Their eyes met, and they stepped hastily apart.

Later that night, Allan guided John's slightly wavering steps to his pallet after John had partaken too deeply of celebratory ale with his father and the other knights and men-at-arms. He made as if to leave John there, but John grasped his hips and pulled him closer, burying his face against Allan's shoulder and inhaling. "John, ye cannaught," whispered Allan, but John turned his face back and forth against the warmth of muscle beneath his forehead - no.

"Allan...needs...needs I mote go out for a spell," John said thickly. "Take me... Take me out?" His voice had a note of entreaty. "I prithee." His voice dropped, mouth moving against the wool of Allan's surcote. "Allan - willst thou? Willst thou lie with me?" His left hand rubbed back and forth on Allan's hip. Allan stilled.

"Be ye well, John? Thou didst drink deep. Will you cast up?" He spoke the words loudly, for the benefit of any listeners.

John grasped at the excuse and nodded, inhaling the scent of sweat and wool and Allan. Allan stepped away and took up John's cloak, swirling it around John's shoulders and tugging the hood up so John's face was concealed. Grabbing a blanket from John's pallet, he likewise covered his shoulders and tugged John towards the door.

Once outside and in the bailey, John breathed deeply of the chill night air, tilting his head up to the stars, the hood falling back. Allan hissed in annoyance and tugged it forward again and John looked at him questioningly from under its shadow. "You mote make believe, John. If you... You mote hide thy face and form, pretend ye are but a wench, my leman. Elsewise 'twill be disaster. John, be ye sure -?"

For answer John pulled the taller lad into himself, wrapping the cloak about them both. Allan's hands came up to grasp the back of John's head. The meeting of their mouths was ungentle, a bruising clash of lips and teeth. John's arms crushed his chest to him, and slowly ground his aching tarse against the top of Allan's thigh. He could feel the length of Allan's cock, trapped behind its codpiece, hard through the layers of linen and wool. The kiss gentled to a brush of lips and John murmured low, "Am I naught sure? Allan. Allan, I want ye so. Ye slays me. Ye slays my reason."

Allan pressed his forehead against John's, eyes closed tightly. "Th'art sotted with ale. You will regret it. I wouldst naught dishonour thee."

John swallowed hard. "You...Then ye do naught...? Allan. Do you naught want to -?"

Allan's hands were suddenly hard on either side of his face. "God help me, John. Day and night, awake and sleeping I haf lived in thought of thee. But I thought - th'art to be a knight, and I be but a lowly bastard son. Ye be above me, and so I thought I mote live without thee. Thine honour wouldst be mortified, knowen that ye did lay with me."

John shook his head dumbly, but Allan pressed on, "But you! Ne'er, ne'er did I think that thou wouldst... John. John! There is naught I would not do for you, but dost thou wish it. Sayest thou nay, and I will abide. Ye mote sayen me true. Do ye...do ye truly wish this?"

John looked into dark eyes he knew better than his own. Allan. John's heart burned with the brightness of the feelings within. His smile spread, bright and loving and wide open. "Twas never only dalliance and kisses with ye, Allan. In troth, I wish it. I do wish it most ardently."

Allan inhaled a shuddering breath, eyes closing. His answering smile was tremulous. "Oh. God help me, John Wattson, but that I do love thee." His eyes opened again and he tugged on the hood of John's cloak once more to straighten it. "Comen ye. I know a place."

John waited at a distance, hunched down in his cloak as Allan spoke to a stable lad, passing him a few coins. Rather than use the main stable, they were in a small separate building for the horses of visiting guests, used at the moment for tack and storage. The stable boy looked over John's wool-wrapped figure, grinning, and said something to Allan in an undertone. Allan smiled in answer. "Aye, she be a shy one, but comely. Go you now." The lad passed over a small horn lantern and sauntered off to bed down in the main stable. Allan crooked his finger at John, backing into the dark door.

John joined him within, grinning as Allan closed the door and stepped away to hang the small lantern to an iron fixture. "I be but a shy maiden, hie?" He pushed back the hood, disarranging his tousled hair even further and bunched up the edges of the cloak, his eyes darting around, covering his mouth with the heavy cloth as if in trepidation. "Oh! Nay! Prithee, where dost thou take me, sirrah? For to haf thy wicked way with me?" His bright eyes glinted merrily and Allan snorted a laugh and lunged at him, grabbing an arm and digging at John's ribs with the fingers of his free hand. "Argh! Allan! Nay, get off," John yelped, but Allan was merciless, and John doubled over giggling.

"Shall I teach you to be more mannerly with your lovelorn swain, John?" teased Allan. John struck out wildly with an elbow out but missed and lost his balance, knocking his shoulder against a stall wall. Allan was laughing just as breathlessly.

John gasped unevenly between giggles, stomach aching."Stop, damn ye...oh, oh, I cannaught breathe! Allan!" John grabbed his foe's wrist and twisted, swinging Allan around so his back hit the wall next to John. Immediately John was upon him, one foot between Allan's legs. He grabbed Allan's other hand and trapped both over his head, leaning hard to hold them there as Allan flexed against his captor's grip. Allan was grinning, eyes slitted with humour, and John was still giggling as he tilted his face towards Allan's for a kiss. Allan dropped his head, capturing John's lips in a kiss. He lifted his head almost immediately, and John groaned in disappointment.

"Now the tables are turned, hmm?" Allan smirked, eyebrow raised. "Willst thou take advantage of my chaste state?" John choked a laugh at this absurdity, and rose on tiptoe to rub his lips over the curve of Allan's, exploring the texture of the edges gently.

"Dost thou wish it?" he said with a smile.

"I trow, I be uneasy in such virtue, John. An thou wish it, my answer be aye," murmured Allan wickedly. His tongue flicked out and touched the top of John's upper lip before he leaned his head further back teasingly. John growled again at the loss. He hooked a foot around Allan's ankle and pulled hard. Unbalanced, Allan slipped down several inches, bringing him to John's level. He grinned at Allan's startled expression.

"An I wish, then," John said throatily, and leaned in.

From this new position, it was easy to plunder Allan's kiss-swollen mouth. John's mouth mouth gently at first, tongue tracing the seam of Allan's lips before slipping between. When Allan sighed, John pressed harder, Allan's mouth opening under his. Breath was exchanged, their tongues touched tentatively at first, then thrust, tangling, in mimicry of the sex act itself. A high choked-off sound of desire came from Allan's throat, piercing the haze of lust in John's mind. He moved in closer, straddling Allan's thigh, pressing his groin against Allan's hip.

"Allan, sweet Jesu." John's eyes closed, swimming in the sweet bliss of the sensations. His cock was aching, the rasp of linen braies against it almost more than he could bear. Searching for relief, his hips ground and rubbed against the hard muscle of Allan's leg even harder. His hands loosened their grip on Allan's wrists, and Allan's hands dropped to John's head, painfully tangling in the fine strands of hair. John's hand found and cupped Allan through his hose, palm pressing against his erection. Allan jerked, hips thrusting involuntarily, groaning. The sound shot through John like a arrow of fire from his head to his groin, and he abruptly fumbled for the lacing on Allan's codpiece, suddenly desperate to feel that firm flesh in his hand.

"John, wait! wait!" Allan lifted his head away, gasping, and snatched at John's hand, tangling their fingers together. John made a whining noise of thwarted frustration, and used his free hand to scoop Allan's hips into his own. Allan choked. "Ah! Hold off! Not yet - ah sweet heaven, John! Oh... not yet! Bedamned if I'll spend standing up here!" Allan laughed a faint wild laugh, resting his forehead upon John's, and John had to join him. He pulled away from Allan's warmth reluctantly.

In the faint glow of the candle light from the horn lantern, Allan was flushed, as dusky golden as a fresh peach. His mouth was swollen and damp, slightly open as he panted with eyes closed, attempting to master himself. The sight of that lithe muscled body, legs braced wide and chest heaving, erection straining at fabric was exquisite, and John's stomach twisted with desire. His hands ached to draw Allan close again. Allan opened his eyes and looked back at him, eyes dark and shining. "Ah, sweeting, the way you look. So fine and gilt and rosy. I canst hardly apprehend that you are with me. John. Beloved." John reached, but Allan held up a hand to forestall him. "Nay, give me a moment." He swallowed, and pushed himself upright on slightly shaky legs.

John turned away before he lost himself again and walked over to a disused stall being used to store hay. He kicked it a few times to spread it more evenly, and flung his cloak over top the mass, twitching the cloth to remove the worst of the wrinkles. Allan appeared at his shoulder. "Ah, perfect. Hold this a moment." He passed John a small tightly stoppered clay flask. John sniffed at it as Allan threw his blanket-cloak on the newly made pallet as well. His brows drew together. Oil - the kind used to soften stiff riding leathers. Wherefore did Allan need this? John was seized with a sudden doubt, and he bit his lip.

"Allan. Have ye - haf ye done this before?" Allan turned to look at his expression then quickly gathered him close, stroking his hair back and pressing several kisses to his brow.

"Shh, John. Do naught worry, I... have. I know what to do. Is... is't well? That 'tis naught my first time?"

John nodded, a bit shamefaced. "Iwysse, 'twere best that one of us knows what do." He gasped as Allan's arms tightened fiercely around him.

"Then I am your first? Ah, Jesu. I was naught certain, th'art so bold at times... Lord, John. I swear - I swear I will make it good for you." He caught John's lips again in a hard kiss which John returned with feeling, sucking at Allan's bottom lip. Yes. Yes, it was right that Allan should be the first. The fierce joy in Allan's voice when John confessed he had not been with a man before... Dear Lord, the feelings John in him left no room for uncertainty.

"I haf been with women!" protested John weakly when Allan came up for air. Allan shook his head and grinned.

"You trow my meaning. Well, it is much the same. But down below, women have a quaint. Men do naught. So -"

John licked his lips nervously. "Then... oh. But doth that not cause pain?"

Allan plucked the flask from John's lax grip. "Behold. It... eases the way." He tossed the clay vessel lightly onto the blanket. His eyes traced the lines of John's face, serious and yearning. He rubbed his hands up and down John's arms soothingly and took his hands. Lifting them, he kissed first one, then the other. "John. John. I cannaught belie thee. 'Twill hurt a little, but I will be so careful with ye. There will be such pleasure, I swear it." His tongue darted out, dampening the cleft between John's fingers. John's breath caught. "I want to give ye joy. I would lay all I haf before you just to for to maken you happy, given you delight in your body. I want to be with you so, John, thou canst scarce comprehend...! An you like it, you canst do the same with me. I will show you the way of it."

John's hand turned and cupped Allan's cheek, drawing him closer. "Allan. None wouldst I trust but thee in this. Yes. Now and hereafter." Softly, chastely, they pressed their lips together as if plighting their troth at church door. John's lashes drifted down, and he swayed slightly, lost. "Allan. Best beloved." Allan's lips trembled into a smile before he drew away, leaving John bereft. Allan drew him into the stall and down to their knees on the blanket. Allan's hands went to the buttons of John's cote and began to slowly to work them open. John leaned in to press his lips to Allan's throat, and as if in a dream lifted his own fingers to work at Allan's clothing.

Touch by touch, as each piece of John's skin was exposed, Allan kissed it, damps spots cooling and raising goose flesh. Strong tanned hands stroked, moving over John, learning his shape, the texture of his bare skin. A finger drew his cross on its chain up, then moved it aside and traced the line of his collarbone.

"Like cream you are, John. So smooth and white and beauteous. An you taste sweet, like golden honeycomb. Afore God, ye are perfect." John clutched at Allan's shoulders, head spinning as Allan's mouth moved over his chest, murmuring love-talk, pressing teeth in some areas, using the tip of his tongue against a nipple. The dim glow of the lantern beyond made the space within even more intimate. The scent of horse and leather tack was overlain with the sweet scent of hay, wool, and their combined sweat. John's heart pounded like a smith's hammer._ Allan. Oh, Allan._

When they were both free of the confines of their clothing, Allan pushed John gently back against the blanket, kneeling over him. His hands moved reverently, callused palms flattening and curving over the planes of muscle wrought by sword-play and horse-riding - the strong thighs, taut belly, thick arms, strong wrists. John's hips writhed restlessly, as the hands skated close to his aching tarse but did not touch it. "Allan, I prithee! Wouldst drive me mad?"

"Shh." Allan bent and rubbed his cheek against John's chest, the stubble on his jaw scratching slightly. John bucked as it scraped over a nipple, jolting him with the sweet pain.

"God save!_ Allan!_"

Allan chuckled low, soothed the reddened nub with a reassuring lick, and urged John onto his side. Uncorking the small flask, he poured a small amount into his palm, rubbing it over the fingers of his right hand. He lay behind John, and buried his nose between John's shoulder blades. His lips brushed John's skin and John shivered at the contact. Allan tugged the knee of John's upper leg forward, so that he reclined a little more on his front. The movement parted his buttocks, and John shivered. There was a feather-light touch on his buttock, and then Allan's finger was tracing the cleft between from front to back, leaving the slippery feel of oil behind. John's cock twitched against his belly and he arched his back with a quick inhalation. Again the fingers stroked, before reaching around to grasp John's aching tarse.

He groaned as Allan moved rolled the soft skin and firm flesh between his fingers, then circled his cock with fingers and thumb and tugged lazily several times before going back to the gliding stroke - down his tarse, rubbing gently over his stones, then pressing more firmly up to the entrance of his body, where the finger circled and lifted away. Again the fingers returned to his tarse, slicking oil up and down the shaft so Allan's fingers twisted and slipped up and off the head before giving another firm down stroke. He did this several times, until John was panting, thrusting into his hand. Then Allan returned to the torturous side between his buttocks again.

John turned his face face into his shoulder to stifle his moans. Never had he felt such. When the hand reached for his swollen erection again, he cried out at the sweet torture. "Allan, oh, I pray thee! Please..." He knew not what he begged for, except he felt restless and unfulfilled as he had never done before in his life.

Allan kissed his shoulder, tracing a line with his tongue. "Be ye well, John? Do you trust me?"

John thumped a fist on the blanket, denting the straw padding. "Yes! And yes! Allan, please!"

Allan sighed a laugh. "God, th'art so eager. Hold but a moment." The finger, dripping anew with oil pressed against his hole, circling, dipping inside slightly. John's hips twisted at the touch and Allan swore. "Christ, ye are beauteous, John. I can hardly stand it." He thrust his left arm beneath John and roughly pulled him close, rolling slightly so John rested back against him. His left hand gripped John's cock firmly and began to work it slowly as the finger pressed through the resisting ring of muscle. John gulped an inadequate breath at the sudden influx of sensation, the peculiar feeling of penetration. Allan murmured encouragement as the finger made a small circling movement, stretching and sensitizing the flesh around the opening. Slowly Allan began to increase the motion, finger moving in and out. All the while he pressed kisses to John's back and shoulders. "John, John," Allan chanted into his shoulder, breath huffing moist against flesh. "Ah, ye be so warm and sweet, John. John. I wants ye so."

A second finger joined the first, and John's head turned blindly with a choked cry as Allan pressed kisses to his neck, his jaw, his ear. John panted as though after a bout in the training yard, hands opening and closing on air. His hips writhed, pushing his cock into Allan's hand as the fingers thrust deeper into him. Slowly, with soft words and great care Allan worked John open, accustoming him to the new sensations. John lost all perception of time passing, his virginal tightness loosening up bit by bit. Sweat dampened his hair and he began to move harder against the fingers. Allan's deep voice curled around him, supporting him as securely as his lover's arms. As a third oiled finger finger was worked in, twisting and touching a spot within_ just there_, John cried out breathlessly in a high voice, back arching, eyes wide and blind with astonishment. The fingers pressed again in that sweet place, and John lost all restraint.

"Allan! Allan! Oh, Jesu!"

"Shh, honey-sweet, beloved. Be calm, I be with ye. I am here, always." Allan's hands shook as he knelt and drew up John on all fours, legs spread wide. There was a gurgle as Allan used more oil to slick up his engorged shaft. John dropped his head to his bent forearms, trying to catch his breath. So aroused was he, it was a sore ache in his stones. His arse felt hot and open, ready. Allan draped himself over his back, rubbing John's chest and pressing frantic kisses everywhere he could reach. "John. Oh, I doubt me that I can last long, dear one. Are ye -"

John turned his head to catch Allan's eye. Allan was flushed, wild with desire. John had never seen anything so beautiful. "Do naught make me wait, Allan! I want ye, dear Lord, how I want ye -" He broke off, mouth dropping open as Allan cupped his arse and spread him wide, exposing him wantonly. "_Please._"

"Ah, John. 'Twill hurt but a moment. Oh, God, John, _how I love thee._" And with that, Allan pressed against him, _into him._His size was a sore burn, stretching John's opening even wider. A nudge, and he was deeper. Allan released a shuddering breath and reached around to take hold of John's cock, rubbing his thumb over the wet tip, drawing the wetness down over John's aching length.

"Allan," groaned John. "Oh. _Allan._" Allan withdrew slowly and John well nigh shrieked at the drag against over-sensitized flesh. "_Allan!_" He fumbled and covered Allan's hand on his tarse, squeezing and increasing the pace. Allan pushed cautiously deep, deeper, and again until he was buried, hips pressed against John. The sensation caused lightning to flash through John's vision, and they both held still a moment, shaking.

"John, ah...save me. Ye feel... so tight.. Oh, my love." Allan was nearly incoherent. "I ne think.. I cannaught... Oh. Ne do aught, John, moven naught, else I'll spend -!"

But John spread his legs further and pushed back, impatient, asking with his body for more. Allan's hand fell away from John's cock and he dug his fingers into John's hips, rocking slowly into John over and over, then more quickly. John's hand moved apace, hips tilting up. Small helpless noises fell from his throat, forced out with each movement of Allan's body. His stones were drawing up tight, and he could feel his culmination coming upon him. His hand moved faster. "Allan, I prithee, I am there, oh love -"

Allan sobbed a breath and thrust home once, twice, thrice, and froze, fingers clenching hard enough to bruise. "John. John," he gasped brokenly, and John felt the pulsing and burst of warmth as Allan spent within him. Sparks began to flash in John's vision, and he came forcefully, shouting and spilling over his hand. Allan swore behind him as the muscles tightened around his sensitive cock.

"Allan, God save!_ Allan!_"

They both stayed still until the tremors ceased racking their bodies. Then all at once Allan fell against John's back, and John's trembling arms collapsed. He managed to turn his head to the side so as not to smother in the prickly wool blanket. Everywhere their bodies did not press the sweat began to cool, and Allan shivered. He reached to pull the edge of the blanket over them both, softening cock slipping from John;s body as he did so. John inhaled sharply as Allan withdrew, then bit his lip at the trickle of Allan's seed seeping from his body. Allan smoothed a hand down over his buttock and gently rubbed the liquid away.

"Tis naught to be ashamed of, John. 'Tis only natural."

John turned over and clutched at Allan, burying his face against his lover's chest. "Is it?" he asked, voice muffled. His eyes were stinging from the wonder and joy of their union. His heart was burning with love, yet he also wanted to weep with a strange mortal dread at what had passed. Allan tilted John's chin up, and swore softly at what he saw.

"John, ye be naught hurt? I swear, I tried to be gentle -"

John swiped at his eyes. "Nay, Allan. You were perfect. All I could haf wanted, and... and I do so love you. That is all. I suffer from too great a happiness, and I fear what may come after."

"Ah." Allan swallowed, eyes darkening. "We mote keep it a secret. Always. I am sorry for that, John. I wouldst walk proud with ye as my lover by my side always, but for the sake of your honour and life, we mote pretend. I dislike it. More, I dislike myself. I cannaught help what I am, and I sin in my thoughts every day. An when I look upon thee, so golden and good..."

"Allan." John pushed himself up on an elbow, stroking down Allan's side. "Ne sayen such. Thinkest thou I be so pure and blameless? Better than thou? 'Tis falsehood. Do naught hate yourseluen for this. I asked it of thee. An I wouldst do it again. I love you."

Allan's eyes closed tightly a moment, then opened. His lips thinned, then tremblingly curved into the old familiar smile. All his emotions were in his eyes, as he pressed a hand over John's heart. "John Wattson. Know ye, I am yours. For good or ill, I am your man."

John covered Allan's hand with his own, smiling in return. "I thank ye, beloved." They both leaned forward, touching lips softly. Then Allan wrapped his arms tightly around John and rocked them back and forth, too full of feeling to speak more. If a few drops fell onto John's face, he knew better then to mention it. His own heart was too full to speak more. They breathed together, content for the moment merely to hold each other close.

John pressed himself against his lover tightly. After a time he rubbed his face against Allan, scattering kisses over his muscled chest and the base of his throat. As his ardour was roused again, he pressed his mouth harder to Allan, using his teeth and tongue. Allan whimpered with helpless lust when John sank his teeth deeply into the thick muscle at the top of his shoulder, leaving a vivid mark.

Soon enough John was using all the lover's tricks and wiles Allan had shown him, and as he knelt between Allan's legs and pressed home, Allan's heels dented his back, urging him on. Allan sighed brokenly, his face beatific as John encompassed him. John sank into his lover's tight body, and lost himself. His speech reverted to the thick Northern patois of the borderlands as he began to thrust and roll against his lover, and Allan answered him with every motion of his body, calling him on.

"Allan, my luflych, my luf. God, thy body, thy lips, thine een - dost know how ye madden me? Ah, aye, there, e'en so,_ there. _Ye be the best, the comlokkest, an mine, all mine, my true luf. _Allan._ Shameless ye make me, an thus shalt I serven ye, so, so, so,_ there. _Oh swate Jesu, oh, there, there, my luf! Allan!_ Allan!_"

And together they spun up into ecstasy, and together they fell, collapsing exhausted into the blanket and sweet hay. Beyond the stall, the flicker of the tallow candle in the horn lantern flared briefly before finally going out.

* * *

><p>Notes: Everyone should have an Allan their first time round. Everyone thinks John has tons of experience as a lover, but no one really thinks about how that would have started, do they? I bet all the little girls liked to trip him up and kiss him and run away giggling when he was a child. Anyway, I hope that having Allan made up for it not being Sherlock, and for god's sake how could it be Sherlock John's first time? STOP SHIPPING THAT HATE AT ME.<p>

History notes - Aquitaine was a duchy that was an English possession in France, and thus a natural base from which the English could war upon France, especially during the time period known as the Hundred Years' War. This fic is set about 33 years in from the approximate start of the war.  
>Which is to say, the year is 1370, and how John wishes he was in England now...<br>So historical figures mentioned - Lancaster, and de Harrington and the Black Prince are real figures.

The prejudice against bastardy was fairly bad, but they often were... useful? to their parents. In Allan's case, as a fighter. If he died, well. Yes, bastards could rise - become knights, marry and all that. Uphill battle though. Often bastards went unacknowledged, particularly if fathered on women of lower orders. I suppose it could be much the same today if we weren't so litigious.

Yes, the Black Death did take a cruise around this time. When they make those rock concert style t-shirts about the "Black Death - Tour of Europe" with a list of dates that take up the whole of a shirt, they aren't kidding about. I've always wanted one.

Why doesn't John have a room? God, why would he? He's not even a noble, and often the lord of a manor didn't have a sleeping chamber, just a partitioned off area. Yes, I imagine the nightly UNF sounds must have been interesting, and after a while even you wouldn't care. People rolled up in their cloaks and slept in the filthy rushes. Or they had a pallet, a bedroll type arrangement. I'm sure there was lots of bundling in the heart of winter in some cold places.

The only research fail I had was stables. They were not made of stone, and there are no existing examples left. There are 15th century floorplans and architectural maps but otherwise I wasn't able to find much. What were they like? How large? How many? I can't say, except that in medieval society, horses were as ubiquitous as cars. Perhaps slightly less for the lower orders after all, but in Ombriere Palace, the seat of the Duchy of Aquitaine? All those knights, those visitors? Horses all over. And stables - there would have been several, without a doubt.


	6. Dream of Glory and Loss

Distantly a bell tolled Matins, but it was the chill of the dawn spring air on his nose that woke John. God save, but it was cold! Surely he would be allowed to lie abed late this morning. There was a stirring of men moving through the yard, the clatter of buckets. He pulled the blanket higher and turned over. His face pressed against something smooth and warm and his eyes opened. Allan stirred and his hand came up to stroke once through John's hair sleepily before falling away. John gazed upon his beloved, the sharp features, the scatter of tiny freckles over his tanned sharp nose, the way his inky lashes lay on his golden skin, the strong muscles of shoulder and arms. The most handsome, gracious, humble esquire of this keep, and he said he loved John. Allan snuffled, as if to refute to John's warm musings, and John smiled. He pressed a kiss to the angle of his lover's jaw. "Allan. Sweet. Waken ye, slothful one."

Allan sighed. His lashes drifted up, and regarded John sleepily. His lips stretched into a disbelieving smile. "John. 'Tis you. 'Twere not a dream then?"

"Nay," replied John, brushing his lips over the roughness of Allan's unshaven cheek. "The hour grows late, Allan. Matins has rung."

At that Allan sat up abruptly, fumbling for his shirt. "Matins? Depardieu! Get up! Lest we be descried-!" Catching his anxiety, John threw the blanket off and reached for his small-clothes and hosen.

The stable door swung inward. "John?" The blood drained from John's face. For a moment he was unable to move. Mary and Jesus. His father. A low oath burst from Allan's lips.

There was a clink of spurs, and footsteps approaching. "John. Be ye here? Needs we mote arm ourseleuen with haste - we ride out today against the French bastards -" A shadow loomed in the stall opening. Sir Watt broke off, his disbelieving eyes running over the sight - his son unclothed, a-bed with de Harrington's bastard son. The blue eyes noted the red scrapes on John's neck and chest from stubble scrapes, the love-bite that marked Allan's shoulder. His hand reached out blindly and clutched the at the wooden frame of the stall as if it were the only thing holding him erect. His normally kind face under its thatch of light brown hair was stricken.

John felt as though he were choking. Depardieu, please. Let him die, so as not to see that look upon his father's face any more. Let the earth open up and swallow him. Anything. His hand reached up towards his constricted throat and brushed against the cross his mother had given him. He gasped and jerked his hand away as though burned. Oh, sweet Mary and Jesus. Oh, what had he done?

He swallowed hard, and his voice was strangled. "Sire... Father, I -"

His father paid no heed, his gaze lifting away from the sight of his son in sinful and unnatural ravishment. He looked at Allan. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly mild, toneless. "Thy sire awaits thee. You have my leave to depart." Scarlet-faced and fearful, Allan cast a worried look at John. John did not see - he could not tear his eyes away from his father's face. Allan hurriedly pulled on his hose, tied the points and gathered up his wool cote, belt and pouch. He hesitated, looking down at John then left, brushing past Sir Watt who twisted to avoid contact with him. At that, John's misery could not be contained, and his quickly inhaled breath sounded like a sob. He bit his lip until he tasted blood and turned his face away.

"John."

_Oh, Lord, please. Let me die._ John was unable to look in his father's eyes.

"We had such hopes of ye. And now -" John heard his father swallow thickly. "We will naught talk of this. I will speak with Sir de Harrington - ye cannaught take a place in his household now. I think... we mote go home." John made a low noise of pain, but his father cut him off. "No. Do naught speak to me! Only... only get you ready. We ride out anon with Lancaster. Get you ready."

Through a blur of tears, John saw his father turn away, shuffling as though he had suddenly become an old man. He heard his father speak just once more, a breath of pain. "Oh. John. My son." And he left, John still kneeling naked on the welter of wool and straw. John wrapped his arms around his stomach and bent over as though over a mortal wound.

_ "Father." _

* * *

><p><em>John dreamed, and he dreamt of horror. The half-formed noises that came from his throat echoed loudly in his head.<em>

* * *

><p>They had been outflanked, and were hard pressed. Around John, knots of French and English knights were battling viciously a-horseback in a terrible melee of half-frozen mud and blood. Foot soldiers hacked and struggled. John kneed his destrier, using the horse's bulk to throw off the downstroke of a sword coming towards him. He caught the blow on his shield, throwing the Frenchman's blade to side, leaned out and thrust. The Frenchman's horse sidled away, as the guiding power of hand and foot slackened. The man fell sideways and John looked about quickly.<p>

There. Allan was holding his own, engaged in a duel with a pikeman. A foot soldier ran up to reinforce the pikeman, and John began to spur his horse towards Allan to come to his aid when Allan reined his horse around and spurred hard, chucking the horse's mouth by jerking the reins. The powerful haunches bunched and kicked out, and the pikeman was downed. Allan spun the horse back and quickly took advantage of the soldier's shock. His laugh rang out, bright and free, and John's heart lifted in spite of everything. Allan looked over his shoulder, and his laughter cut off abruptly. He pointed with his bloody blade.

"Avoi! His Grace! The Duke, the Duke!"

Heart cold, John twisted in his saddle. Surrounded by several companions, Prince John was fighting furiously. A large group of French had surrounded them. Slowly the English knights were being forced further away from the main force. Seeing their advantage, the French pressed harder, several knights spurring to join the fray. He jerked his horse's head around and spurred. Allan flew past, shouting.

The rolling thunder of his steed's hooves seemed to drown out all other sound and his vision narrowed. John saw how an arms-man ducked between the heaving crush of horse's bodies to lay his hand upon the Prince's jupon, intending either to thrust a weapon into him or pull him from his saddle into the madness. He saw how the Prince's body jerked and began to tilt, and John shouted in horror.

Then abruptly the soldier's hand fell away, and his arm as well. Sir Watt manoeuvred his horse beside the Prince's, a barrier of flesh and steel against all who would attack their leader. John drew a breath of relief as the sounds of the battle burst over him again - earth, iron, the clangour of steel upon steel, the screams and swearing in both French and English. And suddenly John was in the thick of it, jockeying his steed up next to Allan's, his aching left arm swinging the broadsword again and again. Protecting his Prince. Protecting Allan's weak side, as Allan protected his. A heavy impact against his armoured thigh made him grunt in pain, and he slashed backwards at the man doing his best to find the weak spot in his cuisses.

In the corner of his eye John saw his father kick away someone clutching at his stirrup leather, hacking viciously. "Allan," he called hoarsely. "Allan, we mote go hence! My lord father -"

A high equine scream pierced the air, and his father lurched in the saddle and began to fall as the hindquarters of his horse began to buckle. Beside him, Allan swore in fury.

"The bastards! They haf hamstrung the beast!"

John's throat was paralysed._ Father._ Yet Sir Watt fell, still astride his horse's twisting body, as slowly and silently as a tree under the woodsman's axe. He disappeared beneath a heaving mass of combatants who were quick to take advantage of a hated enemy whose leg was trapped beneath his thrashing steed.

"Father!" The cry burst from John so loudly his voice shredded. Allan was calling to him, s something about the Prince, but John was deaf. _Father. Father, I never said - Your face this morning, oh pray God, and they - oh God Almighty! No no no. They are killing - oh, my Father!_ His face was numb, his heartbeat a drumbeat throbbing in his ears and limbs and fingers. Before he knew it he was moving, kicking his horse forward, sword raised and a roar issuing from his ruined throat, a red mist dropping over his vision.

His hearing returned to him first - a buzz as of bees in his head fading into mutters, then words. John's hands flexed, and he attempted to strike out but had not the strength to lift his trembling arms.

_John?_

He made a piteous noise of frustration, and tried again, rolling his head. A hand cupped his cheek and he snarled, words emerging broken and sharp.

"-kill you, for what you haf done! Father...sire...sweet Jesu, do naught -"

_John. John, please. Comen you back._

He blinked, moisture spilling from his eyes. He blinked again, as the hand wiped the wetness from his face. The crimson veil was lifting, and before him was Allan. Allan, without his helm, coif darkened with sweat and rust stains, curls straggling out beneath. His face was a commixion of emotions as he stroked John's face. Wonder, and terrible grief, and a little fear. Beyond was a blur of faces at a distance, watching. A murmur of voices, scarcely discernible, reached his ears.

..

.

_... Pray God I do nought face him in a list field... utterly savage!..._

_ ... Didst thou see how he struck them down? The men around our Prince?..._

_... Liken unto an avenging angel came he down upon the French bastards... _

_ ... Angel, thinkst thou? A ravening wild man, like all Northerners... _

_ ... Berserka..._

_ ... and praise God! He haf saved Lancaster himself..._

_...had no mercy upon them - berserker -_

_.._

_.  
><em>

John's lips's moved but all that emerged was a cracked whisper. "Allan? Is't thou?"

"Aye, John. Be thou in thy right mind again, squire brother? John - art well?" Allan swallowed hard.

John looked at him with a knitted brow. "Allan," he croaled. "What has passed? Why look you so?" Allan looked down. "Allan?" His voice broke into silence.

"Your father... fell. You lost your wits and charged like a madman into the fray surrounding his Grace of Lancaster. You - John cannaught ye remember? So many fell before ye. I never thought -"

John lips shaped around a word - _father_. Allan went on, dashing wetness from his eyes. "An mine own sire is grievously wounded unto death - oh John!"

"Help me up," rasped John. Allan opened his mouth but John cut him off. "Allan, I prithee. Take me to him."

Without a further word Allan put an arm around him and helped him to his feet. John's knees were watery, every muscles strained. His gauntlets were gone, his left vambrace half-dangling from his forearm, the leather of the buckles sliced through. Something warm seeped from sharp hurts on his hip, his arm, his calf. All was streaked with gore and mud. A man at arms hurried to assist Allan as John wavered, knees buckling. Together they guided his faltering steps to where his father lay.

Sir Watt lay half-twisted, arm flung out as though reaching for something. His leg was still trapped beneath the dead destrier, broken. His attackers had managed to loosen his face-plate and his eyes stared at the sky blankly. An English knight, trapped, at the mercy of their enemies - and the French had none.

John was seated on the ground with no memory of having gone down. Allan knelt beside him, rubbing tears roughly from his face.

_In troth, 'twas not so bad,_ John thought. Did he but ignore the gore that darkened the ground, the leg, the colour of the skin - 'twas not so ill. He leaned forward to stroke his fingers over his father's eyes to close them. _There. Liken unto sleep, now. An... an soon he will waken, and I will beg of him..._ He swayed, ears ringing. Allan was speaking again. John saw his lover's white anxious face from the corner of his eye but paid no heed. His lips moved in silence as he spoke to the still form of his father.

_Father. I am so sorry. I never meant to cause you grief - I but loved heedlessly. An I still love him, and now you are - Oh, God. Was this my punishment? For defying the Church teachings? For disappointing you? 'Twas...'twas so great a sin? And yet I love, I love him, I cannaught stop. Oh. Oh Father, please. Can ye naught forgive me?_

Allan gave him a little shake and John rolled his head to look at him, blue eyes wide and shocked. With a pop and noise rushed back in. "...Lancaster is here, John, pay heed! He calls you before him."

Standing a small distance off, his Grace the Duke of Lancaster stood, helm removed and dark hair sweat plastered to his head. He was attended by his herald and several solemn knight-retainers. John made a futile effort to rise but his body yet betrayed him. Prince John's brow furrowed and he made a gesture. John felt himself lifted and placed on his knees again. Steadfast Allan braced him upright again. The Duke looked him over.

"Thou hast the look of thy sire, John, son of Watt." The Duke's face darkened as he mentioned John's father and he looked beyond to the crumpled body. "Knowest thou that thy sire proved his worth beyond measure today in taking a blow meant for me. Thou and I have both suffered a grievous loss with his death." John nodded dumbly. He felt he should be weeping. Why could he not weep? "An were it not for your timely intervention, we wouldst have suffered capture and ransom by the French bastards. We are minded to reward thou for thy valour."

_I did not fight for you,_ thought John. _I thought only to reach my father. I cannaught even remember what happened. There was no great valour. I was naught trying to save you. _

"Your Grace, be thou sure? Though skillful enough, the squire's bloodthirst -" enquired one of the knights. The Duke cut him off with a look.

"You value me so little? You value his courage less? Thou dost demean thyself. Thou dost demean the memory of the good Sir Watt." His somber gaze returned to John. The herald shifted slightly.

"Hast thou made confession this day?" he asked. John shook his head.

"There was no time."

The Duke waved this aside. "Such sins a young man may make are but trifles, I warrant." Allan's arm tightened around John, then relaxed. "Well?"

John's head was in a tumult. What did his Grace mean? Allan leaned in, lips to John's ear. "John. He means to give thou thy spurs. Answer him."

At that, John's head began to throb. His spurs. He was meant to give oath, to serve God and uphold the virtues of knighthood. Him? A base sinner, to take oath over his slain father's corpse. But this was what his father wanted for him, that he be made a knight. It was John's own dearest dream, now turned utter purgatory.

Allan spoke for him, "Your Grace, by your leave. He is mazed yet by grief." The Duke nodded.

"John, thou mote answer. This is thy chance. Thou must think on the future." Allan's words buzzed and rang. John bowed his head and forswore himself.

"Aye, your Grace. Trifles, as you say," he croaked in his ruined voice.

"Very well. John, son of Watt - Do you be without fear in the face of thine enemies, and be thou brave that God may love thee. Speak thou the truth always, even if it does lead to thy death..." John's soul writhed at this...Oh, my Lord and Father... But the Duke's words rolled on, chaining him. "Traffic thou not with traitors. Safe guard the helpless and innocent and do no wrong. This be thy oath. Wilst thou swear?"

John swallowed hard. For his mother and sister. For the ruined dreams of his father. He would do penance his life for this. Surely some good would come of this ill. "I so swear."

The back-handed blow from the Duke spun John into Allan's arms. "That is that thou may remember thine oath. Take up thy good father's sword and shield and rise a knight, Sir John."

But John could not. Dizzied, dry sobs racked him that sounded near to mad laughter. He was foresworn. A sinner in the eyes of God. Yet he was a knight and he still loved Allan in dread and fear. "What ails him? Ah." The Duke's voice was receding. "Have him brought to my physician." John could not speak. The terrible joy spiked with thorns of pain overcame him and he swooned.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

I thought I would start adding in the research notes - people on AO3 were interested and if you like to discuss these things, the comment system over is pretty decent for creating threads of discussion. In addition to this chapter's notes, I'll be going back and adding notes to previous chapters. I'd include links to some of the things I reference, but FF Net is ferocious about these things. Pity.

In case you were unsure, John and his father serve John of Gaunt (or Ghent), who was the third son of King Edward III of the house of Plantagenets. He was the first Duke of Lancaster.

Though movies and reenactment societies make much of the ceremonies of knighthood - praying and fasting, elaboarate ritual, I have always preferred the fast and dirty battlefield dubbings. When one showed exceptional skill and bravery on the field of battle, a squire could be dubbed a knight right there. So, there is precedent for John's dubbing.

Regarding dubbing, you may ask why John didn't have a sword touched to his shoulder. Because this is not Hollywood nor modern England? Dubbing is a blow - it could be struck with the flat of a sword blade, or struck with an open-hand. It was essential to the ceremony, even on the battlefield. You may suppose if you like that the Duke's sword was too filthy bloody, and John too obviously ready to collapse to have the former type of blow. With bad luck John would faint as the sword came down and he would lose an ear. The remnant of this blow can still be seen in the modern ceremony of knighthood as the gentle touch of the sword to a shoulder. We hope the Queen practises so as not to cut anyone's ear.

Versions of the vows differed, and I compiled a huge long list of things the new knight would swear to - protect ladies and orphans, be a good Christian, be truthful, be humble. I was relieved to shuffle off most of them and keep it simple and condensed for this knighting.

Oh, and if anyone notices any bad grammar, i.e. I didn't check carefully and used something stupid like there/their (I hope I wouldn't) drop me a note.


	7. He heard the owlet cry

**So turn, turn your stallion's head 'til his red mane flies in the wind**

**And the rider of the moon goes by and the bright star falls behind."**

**And clear was the paley moon when his shadow passed him by**

**Below the hills were the brightest stars when he heard the owlet cry**

**Saying "Why do you ride this way, and wherefore came you here?"**

**"I seek the Witch of the Westmorland that dwells by the winding mere."**

* * *

><p>And in the dark of the night, across the cold Channel and a sea of years the shadows gathered thick about Sir John as he lay wrapped in his cloak upon the cold earth. Leaper sat watchful at his side. In his shoulder the dark magic pulsed in time to his heart. His horse shifted uneasily as the darkness grew thicker. John shivered and sweated. His left hand twitched.<p>

_:: Ah... there thou art, Sir John. My sweet John :: _The voice was sly, mocking. John moaned in his sleep as the chill voice slid into his head_. :: I wert most displeased with Sebastian when I did discover what had passed. Not that he told me in any haste... It took some to time to pry the truth loose_ :: The voice had a pleased gloating tone.

_Nay. Nay_ . John's head turned side to side as though to deny the voice. Perched on Galen's cantle, Dangereuse lifted her head, keen eyes looking about her as above great wings soughed through the air. An owl landed upon a tree limb, cocking its head sideways at the goshawk as she ruffled. Another great owl arrived, and another.

:: _It hast pleased me no end these past years to have a pet knight. Such a prize thou wert, my John. So good and yet so full of self-loathing. Always striving to do right, despite believing thyself damned. Thou didst make it so simple. And yet... _:: The chill voice grew thoughtful. :: _Yet thou hast an untouchable core, try though I might to usurp it. That thou livest still - 'tis most useful that in his blundering Sebastian did that which gave me most benefit ::_

John's breath quickened as the voice slid and cut in merriment :: _Dost thou die of the wound, thy bright soul is mine, drawn to me through the magic thou carries. Dost thou live, th'art become mine as thy heart darkens as a cloud o'ertakes the sun. Will ye or nill ye, th'art mine, John son of Watt, as thou hast always been. Why resist? Thinkest thou there is aught can help, damned creature that th'art? _::

John's lips drew back as he struggled against the unnatural lassitude. His thoughts kept struggling up towards the surface of waking, only to be drawn back. _Nay. Nay. Dread lord, evil one, ye will naught have me. I seek aid... I seek..._

_:: Whither goest thou? Who dost thou seek? ::__  
><em>

_I seek_... John writhed inwardly, but the sharp plucking at his thoughts drew it forth, and his chest heaved as his eyes parted. "The Witch."

:: _Better and better! What great fortune is_ - ::

"Who?"

At the question, John started upright, left hand fumbling for his belt knife without his volition. The sudden motion made his stomach churn and he clamped his right arm across his body and bent double, retching dryly. A strange fury possessed him and he growled, vision darkening.

"Chevalier. Who dost thou seek? And wherefore?"

"Who asks? " snarled John. "Avoi, I grew most weary of talking beasts! What business is of thine?"

The childish voice grew a little sad. "Beast of the air I am, John, son of Watt, yet t'wer no need for such rude speech. As for names, thou may call me Athena." A small tawny owlet on a twig blinked great dark eyes at him. Sulkily it continued, "As to what business it is of mine, my lord bade me ask. 'Twer my duty, as Gatekeeper of the Plessis barrier, beyond which is the frith-wood. None who seek to cause harm may pass." She ruffled up in pride. "And so - whilst thou answer?"

"Damn ye, ye feather brain! Dost thou think to stop me?" John heard the words fall from his lips in horror. His left hand began to scrabble about on the ground. It found a rock. His arm lifted.

Oh, gods._ Help me_, begged John.

"Hold." A deep cold voice burst through some barrier in John's head and his body relaxed all at once, the stone falling away. He drew a shuddering breath and looked up.

"Thank you," he breathed. His saviour was a great brown owl with dark bars and long ears. The wild yellow eyes glared.

"Thanks I accept, John Wattson, but ware that thou not attempt thus again. Thou seeks passage - but whether thou can pass the Plessis will depend upon several things. Answer the questions."

"I seek..." John wet his cracking lips. "I seek the Witch of the Westmorland. It is said that only she may heal my wound."

"She?" The deep voice of the owl was amused. "He would be seized with surprise to hear that tales of him have changed so much in the telling that he is no longer considered a man." The great owl chortled a hoot, echoes by the other night birds ringing the trees around John.

John was confused. "The Witch... is a man? How is't possible?"

The owl's voice was wry. "Call him 'witch', it matters not. The power he carries is akin to the hags. But is that the only reason you seek the Witch, John?"

"I am accursed. I fear for my soul," admitted the knight.

"Rightly so. Th'art ridden hard with a great evil," said the owl. The surrounding throng of watchers clicked their beaks in menace, alarming Leaper so that he whined and hid his nose under John's right hand. "Your path is hard and 'twould take but a misstep for thy soul to be lost. Thou mote keep heart an remember thou this - that even foolishness may become bravery."

"An courage be another name for being a lack-wit?" John snorted. "Ye haf the right of it. Foolish I am, and yet I will press on. 'Nwill I lie down and die and be damned so easily. I thank you for the encouragement."

The owl turned its head sideways. "Thou art an interesting fellow, John."

John bowed slightly at the waist. "I thank ye again. May I haf thy name, oh wise owl?"

The owl turned its head away but the little tawny owl danced upon its bending twig, nearly falling off. "Call me Anthea!" John wrinkled his brow.

"I thought thy name were Athena?"

The owlet was abashed and the great long-eared owl clicked his beak resignedly as the others uttered low hoots of amusement. "Pay her no mind. She is but a page still and needs training yet. Anthea, show John the way, should he make it through the Plessis." He turned his lamp-yellow eyes upon John severely. "Thrice thou hast thanked me, John Wattson. Despite th'art a rough knight and soldier, thou hast the manners of a courtier. And so I tell you again - mind my words an in trust thyself."

With that valedictory statement he spread great wings and flew, swooping so low over John that feathers brushed his head. Within moments the clearing was empty of all save John, his animal companions and the little owlet.

John gathered himself painfully to his feet, rolling up his cloak and thrusting it behind the saddle. His arm burned hot and cold, but at least it was under his control again. He feared the worsening of the curse, the dark fury that had possessed him. He must find the Witch, ere he be lost. Time to go. Looking about the clearing, he stilled.

"What witchcraft is this?" he demanded of the owlet. She swivelled her head around and looked back to him, dark eyes meeting blue.

"'Tis the Plessis. While thou slept, it grew up around ye. Shouldst thou make it through by thine own hands, thou willst be in the frith-wood, the places of protection where the Witch dwells."

John strode around the clearing, eyes wide in the moonlight. All around was a thick mass of vegetation and shrubbery, trees, branches twining and tangling, thorny twigs pinned under others and interweaving to form an impassible barrier. "This cannaught be! I am trapped! There be no way through, lest I hew through with my sword and battle axe!"

Anthea clicked her small beak in warning. "Do naught, if thou truly seeks the Witch. Violence and evil will not help thou through the Plessis. If thou harm'st the living wood, thou will find thyself on the homeward path, try as thou might to find the way in again. The Witch protects his own. Be naught a fool, John Wattson."

John clutched his brow as he attempted to unravel the problem. How to pass? It was too high for Galen to jump. If he climbed, he would have to leave behind both hound and horse. Dangereuse shrilled and the high cry cut through the whirling in John's head. _Standen ye still and think, John. Blundering never did any good. Lack-wit._ He snorted at the thought, then paused. "Bravery be stupidity, foolery be bravery," he muttered. "Canst be...?"

He thought a moment longer, then clicked his tongue. Leaper stretched forelegs out, tail wagging and John smiled. "Thy master be a fool, and you be my performing companions in this jongleur's troop. I shall buy motley, sure, should this work. This be foolish in troth. Will ye trust me, friends and follow?" He took up the loose ends of Galen's reins and closed his eyes. He inhaled, attempting to still his pounding heart. With sure steps he walked forward, blinded, muscles tensing for the scratch and claw of thorny branches halting his progress.

It did not happen. He walked on, skin chilly with nervous sweat. _Surely I am through? _The leafy floor of the forest changed underfoot and gave way to packed earth. In faith, with the bravery of a fool John walked through the Plessis barrier and into the realm of the Witch.

Finally he could stand it no longer and opened his eyes. The track he walked opened ahead onto the moonlight surface of the Ullswater. John's knees weakened in gratitude. _Oh, thank the gods._

A flutter, and the owlet landed on his shoulder. "Well done, John. Thou hast passed the test. Go you now - you mote traverse the Kirkstone pass ere you reach the Witch. He dwells by the winding mere beyond." She hooted a small laugh. "If only a fool can do it, still 'twere well done. Gods grant you speed on your journey." She flew off.

"Fare thee well, Anthea," John called. "I am sorry for my rudeness! I was not... myself," he finished in a mutter. With a sigh, he clucked to Galen and walked on. He had yet a weary trek to make before he reached his goal.

* * *

><p>An owlet, as you may guess, is a word for a young owl. The Athena owlet is a Tawny Owl, a beautiful and deadly hunter whose cry ironically is considered a portent of doom. l<p>

The large owl is the stately and imposing Long-eared Owl.

Both types are found in the North.

Frith - the meaning of frith is akin to sanctuary, a safe place.

Plessis - is pretty much as described - a living fence of wood. You can grow one yourself with time and patience. It's like a hedge. Plant it, let it grow. Walk along it every day, and like a bonsai,bents the twigs, weave them so the grow together.

Jongleur - French for a jester, and a general term for wandering entertainers. Though jester implies jokes, entertainers came in many types: tumblers, minstrels that played instruments, troubadours that sang or told stories and poems. Some had performing animals as well. Motley can refer to the bright and clashing colours they wore to get attention. That motley means to us 'ragged' as well gives an idea of the rough life on the roads as a professional entertainer, repairing worn clothes often.

Yes, I never thought I'd be incorporating episode-like dialogue in this, for some reason. Much less when the Witch's older brother is in OWL shape.


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